


A Seven Percent Solution

by MithrilSilvertongue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MithrilSilvertongue/pseuds/MithrilSilvertongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First fanfic! Moriarty tries another approach to lure his nemesis into his sticky web, exploiting one of Sherlock's darkest desires - drugs. Possible spoilers from season 2. Pre Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Sherlock would always wake up as soon as he noticed another presence in his room. Sometimes, even before John had turned the knob on the door. He would find Sherlock on alert, slightly tensed in his body, visible even under his heavy blankets. He would not stir or open his eyes. His long, dewy eyelashes entwining together as he kept his eyes shut. Lips slightly parted._  
John had checked upon him before he went to bed. Sherlock always had this thing with bed hours. Always in bed by ten o'clock. Sometimes eleven. Sleeping heavily, nowadays due to the unhealthy intake of different narcotics, ranging from caffeine pills to his seven-percent solution of cocaine. John hated that his best friend would violate his body in such ways. Pumping his veins with poison, dulling his mind and body (though Sherlock firmly believed it was sharpening his senses), making him… almost catatonic.  
They'd had many arguments about his drug abuse, Sherlock sometimes denying it, sometimes not. John and Mrs Hudson had tried to hide the bottles of alcohol and various drugs he stashed around the flat, but Sherlock always had a way to locate their hiding places. Not that it surprised John; Sherlock was after all a master of deduction.  
So now he stood there, in the doorway, hand around the doorknob, eyes caringly scanning over his friends battle worn body. He found himself monitoring his breath as the thick blanket slowly raised and sank. He then moved his gaze upwards: The dark circles beneath Sherlock's eyes made his already pale skin look even paler, more translucent. A thin sheen of sweat had gathered over his parched lips and on his forehead. The sweat made his luscious, dark curls plaster against his skin.  
Even though he was looking at a decomposing, torn and crumbling human being, he couldn't help but notice how peaceful he looked. That made the heavy knot in his stomach loosen ever so slightly. He sighed and took one last glance at his friend before he closed the door gently behind him. 

_Sherlock Holmes untwined his long lashes to reveal a striking set of bloodshot, pale eyes. They stared intently at the door for a long time, deep lines of thought furrowing his brow. Then his whole face suddenly softened. The boring gaze slowly changed into something indistinct, a glossy haze cloaking them. It looked as if he was looking into a lost memory, buried deep within his soul. A memory he rarely ceased to remember. Then his eyes rolled backwards into his skull, and he fell into a dark, dreamless sleep._

John had spent the first hours of the day running errands, some for Mrs Hudson, some for Sherlock. It was pouring down with rain by the time he entered through the heavy, black door at 221B Baker Street, and he hurried inside, relieved to be out of the cold showers of rain.  
"John? John, is that you? John?" he heard Mrs Hudson from upstairs.  
"Ye—Yes, it's me! I'll be up in just a minute!" He manoeuvred himself out of the soaked jacket and hung it up to dry before he grabbed his groceries and jogged up the creaking stairs. He was met by a worried looking Mrs Hudson.  
"Oh John! You have to check on him. He hasn't eaten all day! He doesn't want anyone near him!" She rubbed her hands anxiously together before she clutched her left arm around her slender frame and rested her right elbow on top of it, nibbling worriedly at her fingernails.  
"I tried to give him some soup, but he just yelled at—"  
"Yes, it's OK, Mrs Hudson," John set the groceries down on the kitchen table.  
"And then he began throwing things—"  
John hurried over to her and clutched both his hands around her shoulders.  
"I'll go check on him right away."  
"Will you try to get him to eat something?"  
"Don't you worry Mrs Hudson, I'll get him some fodder, even if I have to force it down his throat myself."  
Mrs Hudson gave him a slight smile. John smiled comfortingly back and gave her shoulders a light squeeze before he let them go.

John took a short pause, preparing himself for the worst, before he pushed open the door. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found inside.  
Curled up in the darkest corner sat Sherlock, his chin leaning against his heaving, naked chest, his whole body soaked in a thin layer of cold sweat. Trembling and shivering. He was wearing his dark blue robe and some thin trousers, and his arms he held at a weird angle behind his arched back. Scattered around the floor at his feet lay used syringes, stale food, dirty spoons, a belt and several empty bottles of alcohol; the one closest to his feet had a green label on it. John didn't need to read the word written across it to realize it was absinthe.  
"Dear God. Sherlock." He carefully closed the door in case Mrs Hudson would hear anything. John dreaded the thought of her seeing him like this. He ran across the floor and dropped to his knees next to Sherlock.  
"Oh God, Sherlock. What have you done?"  
He carefully lifted his chin up and tried to make contact with the distant, blue eyes. Sherlock's head swayed slightly as his neck tried to hold his head upright.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asked desperately.  
He placed his hand on Sherlock's damp forehead. He was burning up. He then moved his fingers down to the left side of Sherlock's throat, and his heart sank when he felt Sherlock's heart pumping far too fast.  
"Sherlock, talk to me. Say something. Sherlock!" John snapped at him.  
Sherlock groaned loudly, and his chin fell forward again, exhausted by the effort of his audible response.  
"Sherlock?" John asked weakly and pushed him back again with both hands on his shoulders, steadying him against the wall.  
"G… Get… Get out, Jo—", Sherlock moaned.  
"No, Sherl—, Sherlock, listen to me. You have to keep talking. Just keep talking, all right?"  
No response. He looked desperately into the damp mass of dark hair of Sherlock's limp head, and his eyes travelled backwards to Sherlock's arms. With a shock he realized that Sherlock arms wasn't being held back there by Sherlock himself; he had tied his arms up with belts and what looked like a white silk shirt.  
"Sherlock? How did you? What the hell are you doing?"  
"G—get out John…" Sherlock drowsily replied, and fell to the side, face pressed against the wall. His mouth fell open, and his breath came out in short, ragged gasps.  
John's shaking fingers tried to open the restraints, but they wouldn't budge an inch.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, I need you to focus now." John hoisted Sherlock back from the wall, and cupped his face in his hands.  
"Sherlock?"  
"John, g—get ou…"  
"No, I need to know what kind of drugs you took," John picked up the used syringe and held it in front of Sherlock's bloodshot, glossy eyes.  
"Focus Sherlock; was it this one? Did you take this?"  
"Mor…"  
"No, you're not taking any more of this stuff. Sherlock – concentrate! I need to know what kind of cocktail you have poisoning your veins," John said firmly and bore his eyes into Sherlock's.  
"John…! M… Mor…! Get—" Sherlock rasped loudly, his face suddenly changing from vacant to distressed.  
"No, I already told you that you're not getting any more of this stuff."  
Sherlock growled loudly in protest and slumped back against the wall, slowly falling to the side again. Breathing heavily, his watery eyes slowly rolled back, exposing the white of his eyes.  
"No! Sherlock, no, wake up!" John slapped Sherlock hard in his face, and Sherlock's eyes flew open in shock to the brutal handling from his friend.  
He blinked several times to regain his focus, and then he stared into John's worried eyes.  
"John… lis—… John…" Sherlock momentarily trailed off, but quickly regained his strength and looked back at John.  
"John… Mor…" his breath was heaving so badly; John was afraid he might pass out any second now. A tear of sweat streaked down from his hairline at his temple.  
"Yes? What do you want?" John asked urgently.  
"Nonononono…" Sherlock whimpered and fell forwards into John's arms, his face digging into John's secure shoulder. John wrapped his hands around Sherlock. He felt how the robe, now soaked in cold sweat, stuck against Sherlock's trembling skin.  
"Sherlock?" John asked gently as he leaned to the side and spoke into Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"  
It took immense effort for Sherlock to turn his head to the side, take a deep inhale of air and utter the small word he'd been trying to say to John from the moment he'd stepped through that door:

..

...

"Moriarty."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it so far!  
> I'm sorry if there's any typos, English is my third writing language, so they tend to sneak themselves into my writing from time to time...


	2. Chapter II

Sherlock collapsed in his arms from pure exhaustion. John sat rooted to the floor, eyes widening in shock and his mouth hanging open as the situation slowly dawned upon his racing mind. So disturbed was he by the situation that he was completely oblivious to the creaking sound of the opening door, nor see the light pouring inside as it opened, nor hear how the old floor moaned loudly under the weight of several men entering the room. He didn't even smell the reeking odour of salty sweat mixed with heavy alcohol and the stale smell of dried blood.  
He did, however, feel a terrible chill run down his spine when a familiar, maniacal laughter resounded through the dark room.  
"Look at what we have here, boys…!"  
John sat motionless for several seconds, his heart beating so hard against his chest that it was clogging up his ears. Then, slowly, he forced himself to turn around and back up against the wall, rather clumsily, as he was dragging with him the limp body of his friend whose arms were still tightly secured behind his back. He gently placed him in his lap and moved his right hand under Sherlock's neck, supporting his head, tracking his weakening pulse as it pumped through his main artery; the other hand he tucked around Sherlock's body. It took what felt like half a century before John had mustered up the courage to face the intruder. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the lifeless body closer to himself. John looked up.  
Strong light from outside the room silhouetted Moriarty's face; the contrasting shades made him look even more borderline crazy than usual. Three men had surrounded him, one of them so big that John was able to diagnose him as a heavy steroid addict, even in the dull light the man was standing in. He clutched Sherlock closer to his chest. John turned his focus back on Moriarty again.  
"Mrs Hudson?" John asked with a stern voice, but failed miserably at hiding his unease.  
"Oh, fine, just fine," Moriarty replied casually, rocking back and forth on his feet, his hands neatly tucked inside the pockets of his Armani suit.  
"And— and how do I know that you're not lying?" John cast a worried glance at the stairs partly visible behind Moriarty's entourage.  
Moriarty's face gradually fell into darkness as he slowly lowered it. The words he silently uttered next came out deadly as poison:  
"Because…. I said so."  
Then his voice snapped back to its gleefully self: "Besides, I only came back to collect my prize," he continued and smiled maliciously, revealing a set of pearly whites, "—the thing you're holding onto so dearly," he said hungrily, black eyes fixated on Sherlock's limp body.  
He raised both hands and made a square with his thumbs and index fingers and looked down at John and Sherlock through it, squeezing his left eye shut.  
"You two make such a cute couple!"  
"Came back?"  
Moriarty let his hands fall disappointedly down at his sides and rolled his eyes dramatically.  
"What do you mean, ca—?"As the scattered pieces of the puzzle came together in devastating clarity, John's stomach turned into a heavy lump of ice.  
"You've been here before, haven't you?"  
"Ding! Ding! Ding!"  
"Why? What have you done to him?" John demanded.  
Moriarty shot him a dark look, making John regret his sudden outburst, but then his features softened. He'd changed his mind.  
"Well, you see John, I couldn't just kidnap you again, could I?" John swallowed hard as the images of his last encounter with Moriarty flashed before his eyes.  
"I don't like repeating myself," he continued in a low whisper and started pacing back and forth in the room, narrating more to himself than the others.  
"Though, I have to admit, I did underestimate Sherlock's brilliant mind. Yes!—" he barked in disbelief at John as he noticed the confused look upon John's face. "He is gifted with a far more superior mind, making him stand out amongst all the boring little peasants. And that's what's makes the chase that much more… interesting." Moriarty let the unnerving sincerity of the last words linger in the air before he began pacing back and forth the room again.  
"I've always been the genius between the two of us; Sherlock gets too attached to the people around him. Attachment weakens the mind. Your judgement. But Sherlock did have that single weakness I didn't take into account. I'd already tried out one," he stopped for a second and looked down at John, eyes glinting malevolently. John felt his fingers clutch harder around Sherlock's trembling body.  
"And then there was the other weakness; his little admirers at the police, so desperate at trying to frame their little helper as the loony fraud – oh come on! What better way is there to degrade a police force as an incompetent band of stuck ups than to constantly point out their utter usefulness? Of course they wanted to put him back in his place. That's another of Sherlock's many faults in character: he just doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut."  
John felt Sherlock's body stiffen in his lap and Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, clearly distressed as he tried to find a familiar face for help. Then he opened his mouth wordlessly and began to cough; slime had clogged up his windpipe and was clinging to its sides, refusing to let go. Sherlock desperately tried to force it out and John rolled him over to his side, hitting and massaging his back flat with his left hand and letting Sherlock rest his forehead in the other. Sherlock was gasping heavily between each fit, his eyes beginning to water.  
John whispered comforting words as Sherlock's fits were getting louder and louder, his whole body twisting in contorted motion.  
An irritated sigh escaped Moriarty's lips and he turned around to address the largest of his three bodyguards.  
"Shut him up will you? He's ruining my moment."  
John hardly got a chance to react before the brawny man had crossed the room and roughly yanked Sherlock up by the restraints, flinging him across the floor like a ragged doll. John had screamed in protest and clung onto Sherlock's robe, but the slippery, thin, silk fabric had disappeared from his fingers like water. He'd only staggered halfway to his feet when something hard impacted with the side of his head, sending him flying into the wall, the room spinning in front of his eyes. One hand clutching the side of his head, he braced himself against the wall, wobbling to his unsteady feet, and saw the man, now kneeling beside Sherlock's wreathing body as he tried to free the passage down to his lungs, shove a large piece of cloth down his mouth. For the first time in John's life he saw complete and utter fear etch itself upon Sherlock's face.  
"NO! No, stop it!"  
He stumbled forward, the world still surging to and fro before his reeling vision. The man got up and crudely showed John into the wall and pinned him there with his massive body, taking advantage of John's momentarily weakened self-defence. He closed his thick, clammy hands around his neck.  
"Stop it, you idiot! What the hell is wrong with you?" he bellowed, clawing at the mans constricting hands. "Can't you see he's bloody chocking?"  
Sherlock was now fighting for his life on the dirty floor. With his hands still tied up, he tried to push the cloth out with his tongue, but it was made even more difficult every time he coughed, as his stomach would make his whole body stiffen and contract itself. By now his eyes were bulging and his face was turning into an alarming shade of blue. Tears were streaming down the sides of his face, his nostrils flaring as he tried to fill his oxygen deprived lungs.  
"Make it stop! Please!" he pleaded, looking at Moriarty's expressionless face as he beheld the tortured man writhing on the floor next to his feet.  
"Please!"  
Moriarty strolled over and stood beside Sherlock's trashing body, his back facing John. Then he gradually turned around and met John with a twisted, ugly expression upon his face. John froze, realizing what was about to happen.  
Moriarty turned back and sat his right foot a bit further behind him, bracing himself in a mocking, melodramatic fashion. Then, without warning, he lifted it up and rammed it as hard as he could into Sherlock's jaw; his head snapped roughly to the side as the painful smack of the ferocious kick emitted throughout the room. Sherlock remained motionless on the floor.  
"Sherlock…" John whispered in disbelief and felt his body weaken, his whole spirit draining away. The man let go of his neck and took a step back as John descended to the floor, dragging his back against the wall.  
"Sherlock…"  
"There, I stopped it. Happy now?" Moriarty asked in a nonchalant, slightly irritated voice, pointing at his unconscious victim. John looked at him, mortified.  
"What are yo—? I didn't mean—"  
"THEN WHY DID YOU SAY SO?" Moriarty roared, making John flinch back. Moriarty glared at him, looming threateningly over John as his whole body fumed with anger. John didn't voice another word, stunned by Moriarty's unpredictable and sudden outburst. They both scowled at each other, Moriarty challenging John, patiently waiting to see if he would dare speak back and break the deafening silence.  
Content with his skilful way of reducing John down to a more… subjugated state, he stepped back and admired his handiwork, a smug grin stretching his lips.  
"As I was saying," Moriarty carried on, eerily unaffected by his eruption mere seconds before. "Our little friend here doesn't inhabit the necessary skills to avoid unwanted attention." He turned right, addressing Sherlock:  
"Don't you, Sherlock?" He waited for Sherlock's reply. John looked over to the inanimate form on the floor, and was overwhelmed by relief when he heard a muffled sound make its way out of his gagged mouth, followed by a vast inhale of air. Sherlock rolled over to his back, slightly arching it to make room for his tightly secured hands.  
"Ahh! Look who finally decided to join the party!"  
"Sherlock!" John had barely got on his feet before he was thrust back again, his head smacking hard against the wall, and then fell to the floor.  
"Good dog, Alistair." John didn't need to look at Moriarty's face to see the smugly, satisfied expression display itself on the pale surface of his skin.  
Moriarty turned his attention back to Sherlock and crunched down next to him, giving John a perfect view of Moriarty's distinct profile as it hovered mere inches over Sherlock's defined, angled features.  
"Please, let me attend to him," John pleaded silently once more, but was ignored by Moriarty, who was now utterly mesmerized by the awakening man below; his black, beady eyes exploring the interesting little details in Sherlock's skin, hair and lips; the bruise forming on his jaw, the little droplets of sweat running down the sides of his face. He was entranced by how the lines would engrave into his delicate skin as he narrowed his thick brows closer together, and how the light would dance off his piercing eyes, creating a collision of colours ranging from dark blue to a pale, enticing green. He leaned forward towards Sherlock's face, nearly touching him. John saw how Sherlock tried to back away, pressing the side of his face into the floor, his pale eyes still locked upon the scrutinizing examination by the man above him. Moriarty laughed insultingly at Sherlock's reaction as he completely violated Sherlock's comfort zone.  
"You see, darling," he continued in a low, expressionless voice. "Having friends has never benefited you. Never. You see… little John here knew all too perfectly well that he couldn't just throw away all that snow, crack, booze and all your other intoxications. Oh no, because he knew that if your little friends at the police found it, they would turn against you and leave you, all alone, with your hands tied behind your back. No pun intended," he added tauntingly. Sherlock's eyes narrowed angrily.  
"So what better way to make sure I had the upper hand than to keep providing the only thing you couldn't dispose of? And lucky for me, that one thing proved to be the single dirty pleasure you couldn't keep your sticky, little hands away from… I've been providing you for months!" Moriarty exclaimed, "And for all this time you never once raised suspicion?"  
Moriarty roared in laughter as he saw the miserable truth gradually present itself in full glory in Sherlock's sedated mind. Sherlock had never felt more ashamed in his entire life. The feeling of remorse laid so heavy in his chest.  
"You really are a greedy little bastard, aren't you?" Moriarty whispered darkly and leaned in so close that Sherlock felt his warm breath upon his cold, damp skin. "So blinded by your thirst for the next hit."  
Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to face him. He felt so guilty. So gluttonous and weak.  
"You see, Sherlock, not all friends come with benefits. Had they found the drugs, they wouldn't hesitate one single second to brand you as a delusional drug addict with a perversely need to prove yourself better. And then they would throw you away in a dark, damp cell, only to leave you there to rot away."  
Confusion furrowed itself into deep lines on Sherlock's forehead and he turned around.  
"Yes, yes! They would! Don't you see? They don't really need you—"  
"Sherlock, don't listen to him, he's lying—"  
Moriarty grabbed hold of Sherlock's chin and forced it back as he tried to look over at John. Sherlock winced and moaned against his gag as Moriarty's finger dug painfully into the red mark he'd produced on Sherlock's strong jaw line.  
"They only used you so that they didn't have to do all the dirty work. You are nothing more than a tool to them,"  
"Sherlock—"  
"; — a tool that they can use when convenient, and then toss it away when they don't need it anymore."  
"Sherlock, he's lyi—! OOOF!" The bulky man had sent another vicious kick at John, this time his foot had crushed into his abdomen. John groaned in pain, and fell over, unconscious. Sherlock desperately tried to get a look at him, but Moriarty's strong grip held him locked in place. The feeling of complete disorientation made Sherlock's heart race. He never lost control. Never. Focus, Sherlock, focus! … John?  
"And they aren't the only ones, darling," Moriarty venomous silver tongue continued, making Sherlock snap back to reality. An intensifying eagerness underlined Moriarty's voice. Though he spoke at a slow pace, making sure Sherlock's sluggish mind registered every single word he said. "Oh no, John's exactly the same. I've read his blog; always complaining, whining, criticizing – about you. He feels overshadowed, overruled, undermined, dominated, disregarded, controlled."  
Hold on, there are too many words, I can't—  
"And you know it, Sherlock. Deep down you know he feels this way about you. You hear him complain and bitch about it every day, don't you?"  
Yes, that's true, but—  
"There's always something wrong about you; a gesture, a remark, something you did."  
Yes, but—  
"You're never good enough. Your relationship was dead even before it started.  
You know this, Sherlock; you've known it from the very beginning. How could anyone care for you? How could anyone love you? You, with all your faults. All your weaknesses. Who would ever want to live with you? Even Mrs Hudson can't stand being in the same room as you any more, can she?"  
Moriarty smiled yet again as he saw Sherlock's drugged brain try furiously to suppress this forced input of observation, devouring his lethargic mind, as it slowly succumbed to Moriarty's toxic words.  
"He never loved you, Sherlock. He's using you. Mocking you through his little blog, showing the world how abnormal you are. Unnatural. How… strange. You don't fit in his world, never will…"  
Sherlock gawped at him as he started to grasp the true meaning behind it all.  
"; — And you know this. He doesn't want you anymore. Doesn't need you. Never did. He only wanted to use you for his own, personal gain. Expose you like some sort of extinct animal. His little science project.  
You have nothing, Sherlock. No one. You are completely alone in the dark, always have been. In his eyes you are a freak of nature. A freak."  
Moriarty reached down and gently pulled out the piece of cloth, never lowering his gaze; he was relishing at how Sherlock's world gradually turned upside down in stunning clarity, bit by bit, vividly being portrayed upon his horror-struck face. He gently pulled Sherlock in an upright position, their gaze interlocking for a long time as they sat opposite each other. He saw how little droplets of tears twinkled in the corners of Sherlock's eyes, his face depicting such sorrow and disbelief. Moriarty couldn't help but grin. Sherlock ashamedly let his gaze drop to the floor.  
"I can't… I can't believe I let myself… Everyone?" he whispered, aghast.  
"Everyone Sherlock."  
Sherlock began to sob weakly.  
"Oh, come on now," Moriarty said and leaned forward. He cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and lifted it up.  
"It's not that bad now, is it? Don't be such a sour puss."  
Sherlock whimpered, pressing his face tenderly into Moriarty's hands.  
"Hey…" Moriarty whispered affectionately and pulled Sherlock towards him. They were so close that Moriarty could count all the little twinkling stars in Sherlock's tears.  
"You couldn't have known better, you didn't know what you were doing. It wasn't your fault. Well, not all of it, anyway." He used his thump to gently brush away a tear on Sherlock's face.  
"You're not one of them, Sherlock. They don't see you as I do. They never will, so you could just as well stop trying. It's useless. All that hard work, such a waste! No matter how relentlessly you try to convince them, you'll always be a grotesque malfunction. Not even a human being." Moriarty spoke softly and looked into Sherlock's mournful eyes.  
"We all make mistakes," he whispered. "Don't we?"  
"… Yes," Sherlock blubbered weakly into Moriarty's hands and closed his eyelids, tears falling down his cheeks a he let his gaze drop again to the floor. He sat there, sobbing quietly, his hair falling forward, framing his face like a heavy curtain of shame.

Then he looked up into Moriarty's triumphant eyes and whispered darkly:  
"… and you just made your biggest yet."  
With one swift move he whacked his head in Moriarty's dumbfounded face, the sickening crack of a breaking nose sounding loudly, almost like a gunshot. The impact of the brilliantly calculated faceplant had sent them both tumbling in opposite directions, and as Sherlock had expected, all three bodyguards jumped atop of him, pinning him down, the mere pressure knocking out all the air in his lungs.  
He tried to update himself on John's mental and physical state, but before he'd even had the chance to get a good look, he was hoisted up on his feet again, and held tightly underneath each armpit. It wasn't after he felt the burning pain in his stomach that he registered the barbaric punch to his gut. The force of the strike sent him toppling over, but was quickly pulled back up again, gasping in agony.  
Now real tears were messing up his vision, and he blinked rapidly, and saw Moriarty clutching the bridge his nose, looking up at the ceiling, the blood pouring down his chin. He tried to direct the blood flow with his other hand to avoid it soaking his already blood stained designer suit.  
Sherlock cracked up; the baritone laughter filled the little room. Moriarty looked at him with murderous black, little eyes, the only expression he was any good at simulating.  
Sherlock braced himself for the second blow he all too well knew would come after his joyous reaction to the utterly humiliated Moriarty, and he toppled over again, hanging a bit longer as he tried to catch his breath. The gorillas at his side pushed him down to his knees, and a pair of polished, black shoes materialised on the floor within his peripheral vision, stopping half-a-metre in front of were he was kneeling. His head was yanked back by his damp hair, exposing the vulnerable skin on his neck.  
He smirked when he saw how Moriarty had to physically restrain his emotions; he was so furious that Sherlock was afraid his eyes might pop out of his skull from the overwhelming effort he was putting into controlling himself.  
Blood was still oozing from his nose, the whole lower part of his face coloured in a vibrant shade of scarlet red. He was breathing so hard through his clenched teeth that hundreds of little droplets of blood sprayed Sherlock's face and neck as the red fluid flowed into Moriarty's mouth.  
Sherlock chuckled again, his Adam's apple bobbing teasingly up and down.  
Moriarty twisted the hand holding his hair, uncomfortably ripping out strands from the back of Sherlock's scalp.  
"You think this is funny, don't you?" Moriarty asked in a strained voice, still trying to harness himself.  
"I think it's hilarious."  
"Oh, you wait. You just wait. You haven't seen hilarious yet."  
Sherlock drew a sharp breath as he felt the prick of a needle being inserted to the side of his neck and he came crashing down. Once again he found himself falling into a dark, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter III

His body was hurting. It felt as if too much matter had been forced and crammed into his body's capacity, stretching his already abused skin far too much, making it ache and sore in places he never knew could feel so incredibly painful. He felt like a living meat sack, filled with shards of glass that would cut, carve, tear and slice into bruised skin and broken bones every time he stirred a muscle. Even breathing was painful. And thinking. A sharp intake of breath involuntarily escaped his parched lips, and he heard someone stir beside him. The sounds of the approaching creature sent agonizing echoes of noise through his oversensitive ears, making a painful migraine shoot trough his skull. He moaned loudly as the vicious throbbing intensified.  
"Sherlock…!"  
He felt the mattress shift under the weight of someone sitting down next to him. Warm, comforting hands gently held him in place as he tried to roll over to his side, away from piercing rays of light. He growled in protest, and then proceeded to lift up his arm in an attempt to shield his eyes, making the muscles in his arm beg for mercy as he forced them to comply to the tedious effort of motion.  
"No Sherlock, you can't. Your hand…"  
He sighed frustratingly and gave up. He let it fall down to his side; only to be gently caught mid-air and slowly lowered down on to the hard mattress he was resting on. He could feel himself getting incredibly annoyed now. The need to cover his eyes from the vicious light was the only thought he was able to focus on, all other thoughts slipped into a dark abyss before he was able to form them into a useable pattern. All he wanted was to subdue that dreadful migraine, if only a little.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? Say something if you can hear me."  
The consoling hand now rested on his brow – either he was incredibly cold or the hand was incredibly warm, he contemplated in his aching mind. The warmth from the hand extinguished the bitter flame inside his skull for a tiny fraction, a most welcome sensation inside such a tormented body. He slowly pried open his eyes to a world completely blurred out. He blinked several times, his blood-shot and sore eyes already watering, and then the worried face of his best friend gradually came into focus. John was smiling faintly down at him. Sherlock thought he looked tired. A strange grimace of relief mixed with concern so evident upon his ashen-gray face.  
"Sherlock, you OK?" he asked worriedly.  
Sherlock felt John's fingers gently press into the main arteries inside his right wrist. The pressure made his hand feel slightly dull, almost drugged or sedated, as the blood tried to pump through the narrowed artery walls. The numbing sensation gradually moved its way upwards until it reached his triceps, biceps, and shoulder, and then flowed into every bone, tissue and muscle in the right side of his body. The pain was quickly vanishing, being replaced by such a well-known and sorely missed sensation – intoxication. He looked down at John's hand; completely mesmerized by how a simple medical examination could make his body react. It has never done that before?  
"Sherlock, you OK?" John tried again.  
Sherlock looked at him. He hadn't registered a single word he'd uttered, but a quick reading of his face told him to go with worry, based on all the facial expressions he knew consisted within John's wide array of emotional responses in his face and short posture. So he responded rather sluggishly: "'M fine." John didn't seem convinced.  
"I— I said I'm fine!" Sherlock tried to push himself into an upright position with his elbows, but his weak and torn body was gently and without much effort pushed down on the mattress again. His head felt like it'd been filled with lead as it sank into the improvised pillow made out of John's coat and old pieces of sheets and draperies.  
"I think it would be best if you took things slow this time." He shot John a rather confused and slightly irritated look.  
"What? Why?" His speech was hoarse and came out slow and apathetic. "Why can't—why can't I sit up straight? I want to sit up straight."  
John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Sherlock's eyes drowsily scanned over his watchful friend, his eyes briefly stopping when they located something of interest: Healing scratches on the palms of John's hands, possibly a couple of days old, the strange coloured dirt under his fingernails, holes and torn fabric on his already well-worn jumper and a thick stubble of beard that framed his unshaven and hollowed face. Even from the smell Sherlock could make a reliable deduction that John hadn't showered in at least three or four days. Most likely four. Sherlock then proceeded to his previous engagement – scowling. John could feel the glaring, pale eyes, impatiently waiting for an answer.  
"How do I start…" John mumbled to himself. He sighed again, and faced Sherlock's scrutinizing scowl. He knew how much Sherlock hated being the uninformed one.  
"How much do you remember, Sherlock?"  
"Remember?"  
"Yes, how much do you remember?"  
Sherlock closed his eyes and tried furiously to put together the flashing images that flew past; the drugs, the dreadful feeling of no control, the feeling of helplessness as John didn't understand his desperate cries of warning, not having the complete upper hand, the hilarious and exhilarating sensation he felt as he'd smashed his face into Moriarty's flabbergasted one.  
Sherlock started laughing, but was cut short as the joyful reaction made the muscles in his stomach and sides painfully contract, and the heartedly chuckle was replaced by a painful wince followed by a groan.  
"So you remember the faceplant?"  
"Of course I do," Sherlock wheezed, still trying to suppress the pain throbbing in his sides. Sweat was now running down his face and his breath came out in short, ragged gasps.  
"Anything besides that? Do you remember getting drugged?"  
Sherlock didn't answer. So Sherlock was genuinely ashamed of how far he'd let his drug abuse take hold of him, John thought. Well, I guess that just makes him a bit more human. He could feel the shame oozing off Sherlock as he stared intently at a shiny button on John's coat, unable to face John. He decided to carry on.  
"Do you remember this room? Being here?"  
John watched him as Sherlock let his lethargic eyes travel over the small, dirty room. His eyes took notice of the single door to their right, thick and old, a barred up, small window, an ancient looking chair, the source to his migraine; a lamp that had clearly not moved since it was put there during the mid 60's, and a moulding four-poster bed, covered with moth-eaten silk sheets that his slender frame was currently stretched upon. It was a rather sparsely decorated room. The heavy odour of damp, mould and dirt lay heavy in the thick atmosphere.  
"I don't…" Deep lines of thought dug into Sherlock's delicate skin. "I don't remember…" Sherlock's innocent and confused eyes looked up into John's; searching for answers.  
"Damn it. I knew it had to come to this," John brushed his fingers nervously through his ashen blonde hair.  
"Come to what?"  
"Are you sure? I mean, are you absolutely sure you don't remember anything? Anything at all?"  
"Yes John, I'm—, " Sherlock gasped in pain as another muscle at his side burned discomfortingly; "—what are you not telling me?"  
John looked down; Sherlock could see his ordinary brain trying so hard to break the story down into simple sentences.  
"Well," John started weakly.  
"Well what, John?" Sherlock snapped, wheezing slightly.  
"Well, he… He was very angry with you, you see. Very angry."  
"How angry, John?"  
"He… Well, he beat you. Kicked you—"  
"Yes, I've already deduced that much, but thank you kindly for the clarification. Anything else?"  
"He… Um… I… I tried to bandage your hand as well as I could, but—"  
John's words disappeared behind a veil of silence as Sherlock slowly raised both hands to his face. He felt his stomach turn into a big lump of ice as his eyes noticed the filthy, heavily bloodstained fabric that had been wrapped around his left hand. The dreadful feeling of not knowing what he would find as he slowly unwrapped it with his right hand was almost unbearable. Dried patches of blood made the rough textile stick to his skin, and he hissed loudly as the strands of fibre would painfully slow tear itself apart from the open wounds and angry, red burns that had been so viciously cut and inflicted on his tender skin.  
"Sherlock, don't…"  
Sherlock lifted off the end of the bandage and held the hand in front of his horror-struck face. All his fingernails were missing. His stomach dropped when he noticed that the fingernails had been torn out by bending them backwards; long strips of skin were missing down the length of all his fingers. He could even see the glinting bones visible under the exposed flesh. Tears were blurring his eyesight, and his whole body started to tremble as he beheld his tortured and mutilated hand. He felt bile starting to force its way up from his starved stomach.  
"A glorious piece of work, isn't it?"  
Sherlock gawped at John, who was now staring with his mouth open in shock at the door. Sherlock followed him and he found Moriarty standing just inside the room, accompanied by three of his brute bodyguards, whom was standing right behind him looking like some well-trained dogs. Moriarty stuck his hands inside the pockets of his tailored Armani suit and casually strolled into the centre of the room, carefully keeping his distance.  
"Don't you think?" he nodded towards Sherlock's deformed hand. Sherlock could only but stare. He found himself completely taken aback of this new tactic; Moriarty would never intentionally physically weaken an opponent. He loved the challenge, the game of matching wits with an equal. He needed it.  
Moriarty grinned and looked down at his feet. His manner and personality had drastically changed from sadomasochistic maniac from their previous encounter to that of an innocent schoolboy, this child-like change of nature was eerily unsettling. It made his next move very unpredictable.  
"Oooh, that does look very painful. Does it hurt?" he mocked. "I guess playing the violin won't be happening anytime soon." Moriarty's eyes flashed darkly when he saw how that mental image manifested itself in physical form on his nemesis.  
"You bastard," Sherlock hissed.  
Moriarty laughed nervously, switching back to the nature of the teenage schoolboy.  
"You foul, nasty, evil—" Sherlock was so furious he couldn't even conjure up the verbal abuse he wanted to roar at the now giggling man standing in front of him, relishing at the suffering he had caused.  
"You… You—"  
"Marvellous piece of work, such class," Moriarty interrupted. "I must admit I'm really impressed," he continued, making a big deal out of straightening his suit and brushing off his cuffs. He stopped and looked at John, a dark grin stretching his lips. "Almost surgical, don't you think?" Sherlock felt like his insides had just been ripped out.  
"Sherlock, no— stop, just listen—!" John tried reaching out, but Sherlock was already out of the bed, stumbling as he backed away against the wall. The look on his face was that of utter disbelief as he clutched his wounded arm tightly against his chest.  
"You?"  
"Just— Sherlock!"  
"You did this? Why?"  
"Sherlock, please! Just listen," John spoke softly between Sherlock's cries of despair.  
"Why did you do this to me? Why? Tell me!"  
Sherlock backed into the furthermost corner as John tried reaching out to him, and realising his mistake, he panicked and grabbed a moulded plank from the floor, holding it out between them.  
"No! Don't come any closer!"  
"Sherlock—"  
"Stay away from me!" Sherlock's voice trembled as he tried to move away from John, pressing his body up against the wall like some cornered mongrel, about to meet its fate.  
"I said stay away!" Sherlock bellowed at John, who carefully took a step back, holding his hands up and lowering himself slightly to try and at least physically, as he was unable to do so verbally, try and convince Sherlock that he meant no harm, and that Sherlock was the one that had the upper hand. Or, for so long.  
"Will someone please take that away before he hurts himself?" Moriarty sighed in irritation. Two of his brute men, one the largest of the three, crossed the room and easily disarmed Sherlock despite his noble attempts at fighting back. John had without hesitation joined the fight, taking on the biggest of the three.  
"Easy now," Moriarty muttered as they forcefully took control after a short brawl. One of the men pushed Sherlock roughly into the wall, and the cringing sound of scull cracking against the rough, concrete surface resounded through the room. The man quickly grabbed both of Sherlock's wrists and held his hands far above his head. Sherlock tried to wriggle himself loose from the strong grip around his wrists as the man tightly held him up against the wall. Both men were breathing heavily as they stared at each other, eyes narrowing in anger.  
"Now," Moriarty said, and thus broke the uncomfortable silence. "Shall we continue this in a more civilized manner? Splendid."  
Walking up to Sherlock, he hesitated for a moment before he leant into his face. He could feel the warmth evaporating from Sherlock's body after the recent wrestle; sweat was streaming down his flushed face. A rather blank expression presented itself upon Sherlock's features as they scowled at each other, making Moriarty slightly puzzled; yet somehow intrigued. He grinned.  
"Take out the other," Moriarty whispered, not looking away from Sherlock. Sherlock remained expressionless as John was led out, protesting loudly. When they couldn't hear him anymore, Moriarty waited for some seconds before he spoke: "You've been a very, very naughty boy. And you know what happens to naughty boys, don't you?" Moriarty taunted. He grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's hair and grinded his skull against the ragged surface of the wall to prevent another broken nose. Leaning in, he hissed into his ear: "They are punished."  
Looking down as he snickered to himself, Moriarty reached inside his Armani and rummaged through one of his pockets. He stopped and gasped dramatically before he faced an aggravated looking Sherlock: "Oh my! Look at what we have here!"  
In his hand he now held a glittering, razor-sharp knife. A maniacal looking grin formed his lips as he teasingly held it over Sherlock's exposed neck; small specks of light lit up Sherlock's vulnerable skin as it bounced off the deathly metal. Breathing hard through his nose, Sherlock tried to back away, but was held in place by the firm grip in his hair, his skull throbbing painfully as it was pushed even harder into the concrete wall.  
"Now, darling," Moriarty continued in his slightly overdramatic, sincere voice. "I've always considered myself as a very noble and fair human being." Sherlock scoffed loudly, but was silenced by another blow to the back of his skull. "And, seeing as you messed up my favourite Armani shirt, I only consider it fair if I was repaid for that insolent behaviour, wouldn't you agree?"  
Forcing Sherlock's head to the side, he placed the sharp end of the blade just behind Sherlock's ear.  
"How about I take this?" he whispered eagerly, leaning in again. "I must say; you'd make a very convincingly looking van Gogh, we could even send the ear to your boyfriend, I'd bet he'd find that very romantic. Though you'd have to change your hair. You'd look good in red. I actually know of a great hair colourist down in Soho if you're interested? No? You sure? Then how about this, then?" Sherlock's eyes widened in shock as he felt the blade pressing in between his legs, making his whole body freeze; even his lungs seemed to have stopped functioning.  
"The little virgin, isn't it?" Moriarty growled into his ear before laughed insultingly at him. "I bet this is the closest anyone has been to touching you down there."  
Standing on the tip of his toes, Sherlock tried to stretch his bruised body as far up as he could, but it only made matters worse as the blade followed, forcing Sherlock to stand in a very uncomfortable and straining position. It wasn't long before his muscles started shaking, and just before he felt like he couldn't take it any longer, Moriarty had moved the knife up to his collarbone, tracing the sharp knife along it and up the length of his neck. A thin sheen of sweat coated the knife as he scraped it over Sherlock's prominent Adam's apple, his eyes glistening hungrily as they followed the teasing blade.  
"I'd be careful with that if I were you," Sherlock said, his voice sounding slightly distressed as the knife circled around his main artery. Moriarty looked up at him, looking rather hurt: "Why? Don't you trust me?"  
"No, I just have this feeling that you wouldn't appreciate another one of your Armani suits covered in bl—"  
Sherlock stopped midsentence and suddenly looked overly pleased with himself, despite the very tight spot he was currently situated.  
"Of course…!" he whispered, his face suddenly glowing with comprehension.  
"What? Of course what?"  
"Oh this is marvellous, just marvellous."  
He grinned and seemed to have completely forgot about the two men standing inches from his face.  
"Don't you see?" he said eagerly as the grin formed into a wide smile and looked into Moriarty's confused face.  
"See what?" Moriarty asked as he lowered the knife.  
"This, all of this," Sherlock said, his eager voice getting louder and more intense. "—this is not real. Nothing. This is all just a trick of the mind, an illusion. Oh, this is very clever, very clever indeed," he continued, his voice slightly out of breath. Moriarty's brows furrowed in confusion, deep lines carving into his forehead. He seemed lost in thought as Sherlock continued with his eager speech of revelation. He faced Sherlock again.  
"Then… How can you feel pain?"  
"Oh, people always feel pain when they dream, it's often caused by some slight discomfort they're experiencing as the sleep, for example if they sleep with their watch on and it pinches the skin, the dream often intensifies the discomfort into pain, so that the person will—"  
"But what happens when people dies?"  
"They usually wake up, much like when you trip or fall, you get—"  
"So… What you're saying is… If I were to bash your head against this wall until I could plaster it with brain, you would wake up?"  
"In theory, yes," Sherlock answered smugly.  
"Then what if…" Moriarty held the knife in front of his face, twirling it slowly in his hands. "—I chose to gore this knife into your stomach, you'd wake up?"  
"That's correct."  
"And you're absolutely sure about this?" Moriarty let his knife trace along Sherlock's jawline as he locked his black eyes on to Sherlock's striking green ones, stopping slightly at the angry looking bruise he'd created, before the blade trailed its way down Sherlock's chest and stomach.  
Sherlock's eyes glittered darkly as he grinned boastfully at his outwitted nemesis.  
"You sure?" Moriarty whispered as he let the knife circle his lower abdomen.  
"Do it."  
"You could be wrong, you know."  
"Do it."  
Sherlock felt the bodyguard let his hands go and moved away, but he didn't stir a muscle or let his piercing gaze drop.  
"You're absolutely sure about this?"  
Sherlock could detect a slight unease colouring Moriarty's voice. Moriarty looked down at the knife, hesitating. Closing his hands firmly around Moriarty's clenched fist, Sherlock moved the knife closer.  
"Come on, do it."  
"You're willing to bet your life on this, aren't you?"  
"I said: do it."  
Sherlock yanked the knife nearer.  
"Do it!"  
For a second Sherlock saw doubt and unwillingness in the black, cold eyes, but then he felt the agonizing, red-hot, blazing sting as the knife sliced and tore apart skin, muscles and organs. His face went pale and his eyes widened as Moriarty churned the knife around, widening the gushing wound. He gasped in convulsing torment, his body contorting in shock as the burning stomach acid seared through every fibre and organ as it spurted out. Blood came cascading out of the gaping cut, warm and wet, colouring the dirty floor in vibrant scarlet as it flowed outwards.  
Sherlock was still clutching onto Moriarty's hand, his knuckles white as he gripped tight around it, when Moriarty leaned in one last time and whispered into his ear: "I told you so. You'd look good in red."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will try to update the story as soon as I can, sadly I'm very busy with school at the moment...


End file.
